Scene of the Crime
by ThingsThatNeedThings
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' JohnxSherlock fanfiction. Sherlock is blunt and secretive, and John's just clueless as usual. The sexual tension is killing me.


**Scene of the Crime**

SherlockxJohn fanfiction

(BBC Sherlock)

And so he'd done it again. Lestrade stood shaking his head, Anderson cursed under his breath (out of jealousy, mainly, but who wasn't jealous of Sherlock?), and John just stood there, basking in the glow of Sherlock's beauty of mind and body. It took him a while to even realise he wasn't listening but staring at Sherlock's thin, soft lips, moving confidently, quickly… He wore that smug smirk of satisfaction from solving another headache case, and that look of satisfaction tugged at Watson until he could hardly take it anymore – he wanted to be on the receiving end of that satisfaction.

And Sherlock knew.

John knew that Sherlock knew. That's what made it so infuriating – Sherlock was never the man to hold back. (John wondered about Sherlock's abilities of holding back _other things_, secretly, in his bedroom, when he was alone, and the door was locked.) If Sherlock wasn't making any move, then it had to be because he didn't feel the same way about him.

Right?

But John couldn't make the first move. After that talk in the café about Sherlock being gay but single (and he knew he'd looked too keen there and then) everything was just too uncomfortable. He felt vulnerable – the slightest whisper of the consulting detective's breath on his skin made him weak at the knees and almost unable to resist him. He often questioned if Sherlock was just being coy – he was a sneaky bastard, really, and John could never figure out what went on in the man's head.

Sherlock was always blunt. Or not at all. It made John even more desperate for the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Bloody brilliant," Lestrade cut in, severing John's daydreams. "And how are we meant to find him?"

"Simple. He checked into the hotel," Sherlock stated, eyes sparkling, while everyone else just sighed, not even trying to work it out. Sherlock's smile dropped. "Or maybe you're the simple ones. Come on, John."

John gulped, nervously licking his bottom lip as he always did when Sherlock was this _intense_. He stepped to his partner's side like a loyal dog… the notion brought all sorts of fantasies into his mind, which he reluctantly forced out, shook his head, and readied himself.

"Not us?" Donavon asked suspiciously, eying John as though he had his cock hanging out – the doctor urgently looked down to check. Heck knows he hadn't been paying attention. He blinked several times before realising his palms were sweating and his pulse was racing; standing next to Sherlock was a challenge in itself.

"No. I find you think too many irrelevant things. It gets in the way."

And with that he spun, black hair and black coat trailing behind him with adoration, John rushing to follow, a little disorientated. They entered the hotel like they lived there; no one looked up from the counter and Sherlock did not stop.

There were stairs and stairs and stairs, lined with red carpet and gleaming banisters. John watched the flash of ice in Sherlock's eyes as he caught a glimpse as they climbed up and up. It was more likely the thoughts rushing through his head than the tiring walk that left him panting.

Sherlock was cool and calm. He had this planned out. Of course, he would say nothing. If Scotland Yard believed he was in here for the thief, he was in here for the thief as far as they knew. The only things stolen around here were hearts. And soon, if all worked out, his virginity.

Finally they reached a door, a corridor, a door. Sherlock swiped the key card, and then looked at John before opening the door to the room. John tipped his head slightly, knowing he had to focus now, and taking out his revolver. Sherlock, to his surprise, smiled, and gently lowered John's hand.

"Not that gun," he said with a wink, and pushed open the door.

The first thing John noticed was the sweet incense flowing from the room. Next, the rose petals, trailing into the room and around the corner. He frowned. Sherlock held the door for him and raised his eyebrows.

"Why would a world-class thief have incense and rose petals?" John asked, being careful not to stammer, or get ideas.

"Why would a consulting detective love a doctor?"

That was enough for both of them. John wrapped his hands quickly, feverishly, around Sherlock's next and tugged him down to his level, kissing him ravenously, allowing his mind to wander now. Sherlock was shocked at first, then John felt him smile as he pulled them closer together, clutched at John's thighs and picked him up. He kicked the door shut. They stumbled into the room, unable to break away from one another's lips, pulling at each other's clothing: they had both waited too long for this.

John felt how thin he was, how taught his muscles were, and, oh, how strong he was. He pushed his chest closer to Sherlock's, breathing through him, licking at his lips between kisses. Sherlock nipped at him, tugged at his tongue, and John hissed in pleasure. They tumbled back onto the bed, Sherlock with one hand either side of John's chests, pinning his with his eyes.

John was begging for it. He wanted to rip Sherlock's clothes off, but as soon as he reached out he found his arms pressed back down.

"Stay here," Sherlock ordered, his voice husky, deep and controlling.

John couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He nodded weakly, and Sherlock could hardly stop himself from taking John right then. The way he surrendered to him made him shiver with lust, and he didn't really know how to handle it.

He stood up, straightened his shirt and paced into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. At first John was dazed, as though he were dreaming, but then he started to wonder – what was Sherlock doing in there? He had seen the desire in his eyes; he knew that Sherlock would…

But would he?

He tried not to think. He stood up shakily and edged across the room, eyes darting as though Sherlock had to be watching him. There was complete silence. The lights were low but Watson could see everything… everything except Sherlock. He got to the door and lined himself up and-

The door opened, and there stood a disgruntled Sherlock, hands behind his back, wearing only boxers, his hips toned and dipped and John's neck nearly snapped from trying not to stare at the bulge in his boxers.

"Impatient, are we?" Sherlock said slowly, stepping closer to John until he could feel the rise and fall of the doctor's chest against his own. John's tongue was dry, and Sherlock could tell. With one hand he pushed him back to the opposite wall, pulled off his jumper, unclipped his belt.

John was twitching desperately, urgent to just follow his instinct, but again Sherlock could tell. He was _teasing _him. Of course Sherlock could hold back: Sherlock was in control. And John was completely out of control to this man.

He leaned closer and whispered in John's ear, "Perhaps I should punish you."

John's head spun and he had to lean his head forward onto Sherlock's shoulder, breathing deeply, feeling himself growing harder and harder, and Sherlock pressing into him closer and closer. His eyelids fluttered as Sherlock licked the back of his neck slowly and then bit hard into him until he moaned and panted, the blood rushing from his head and making him flinch.

"P… Please…" he begged him, his hips buckling, eyes closed.

"Please what?" Sherlock murmured, each breath on John's neck sending tingles down his spine.

He pulled Sherlock closer to him. "Don't stop…"

Sherlock laughed quietly, dominantly, and he felt teeth on his skin again, hard, working down to his chest, until he reached his nipple which he bit and sucked while feeling into John's trousers, pressing against pressure points around his pelvis that made him yelp helplessly as he gasped for breath.

But still his hand explored lower, dropping off John's trousers while John ran his hands through his thick curls, unable to keep his eyes open. Sherlock purred with enjoyment for a second before resting his head on John's crotch and tipping his head up to meet John's eyes.

"Look at me, John," he told him.

"I… I can't."

"John, trust me."

He did, explicitly, but…

"Sherlock, if I look at you I'll-"

"I know."

And then he had to look at him, the way he was kneeling before him, mouth in the perfect place, eyes gleaming with intent… John started panting, hard, fast.

"Oh God, Sherlock-"

Sherlock clasped his mouth over John's member and moved his head, slowly, increasing speed, increasing tension until John was groaning more than he was thinking. He tugged on Sherlock's hair, spurring him on, pleading every moment, hips rocking with the movement, pulse racing, head spinning, eyes fluttering.

And then he stopped. John tried to catch his breath for fear of passing out, but Sherlock stood and grabbed his wrists and tugged him towards the bed. He forced him down on his back and eased down his boxers; John stared and stared, hyperventilating and completely ready to promise Sherlock anything – _anything _– just to finish what he had started.

And Sherlock knew that.

"I'll do anything," John vowed quickly. "Please, Sherlock – now. I… I want you."

He smiled a little, crawled onto the bed, straddling him, keeping eye contact the whole time. "Anything?"

"_Anything._"

"And John…" He leaned closer, centimetres away from kissing him, his hot breath tempting and teasing John. "What do you want me to do?"

John gulped, still panting, shaking. "Me."

Sherlock tipped his head, licked just below John's ear and whispered, "How, Doctor Watson?"

"How- however you want…"

He hissed a laugh again and John couldn't take it any longer; he pulled Sherlock closer and kissed him, tugging on his lips with his teeth lustfully. "Please…" he begged again between nips. "Dear God, Sherlock, please…"

Sherlock pressed his hips to his and John felt the wave of heat pass from him; his eyes started to close but Sherlock grumbled. "Keep your eyes open or I stop."

"That's… impossible…" John's lips trembled and his hips rocked in sequence with Sherlock's.

"Improbable. But you said _anything_."

Falling back to the bed, John clenched his jaw, watching Sherlock's smirk and steel gaze observe everything. His eyes rolled backward, his head tipped. Sherlock's fingertips crept over his body, finding pressure points to make his moans louder and louder until he grasped him. He licked his lips. John struggled to keep his eyes open as he lurched forward to Sherlock and kissed him, Sherlock pulling on his upper lip as he drew back, refusing Watson more and just stroking with his hand.

John watched his eyes. Pupils small, cheeks rosy, lips red. He could feel his pulse radiating into him – fast, and increasing speed. His hand quickened. His gaze intensified.

He couldn't keep his eyes open. He threw his head back and moaned loudly, felt himself explode with the climax, panting and swearing under his breath and still pleading, hips rocking, the sound of Sherlock's panting weaving in with his own and Sherlock's groans of pleasure increasing his.

They both fell onto the bed panting wildly, laughing, kissing still, but softer now, more tired now, but just as tender. They curled into one another, legs intertwined, hands clasped together. John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, breathed one last sigh, and felt himself falling asleep.

"No, no… Don't sleep just yet…" Sherlock insisted.

"You've… got to be done…" John managed, yawning. "I can't… I'd die…"

He chuckled and hugged John closer to him. "No, no… John. John, look at me."

He looked up tiredly, exhausted and spent. He smiled – it was the most sincere, simply happy smile he had ever given anyone. And Sherlock knew that.

"I love you, John. I always have."

"I know," John muttered, and curled his head back onto his chest. Sherlock blinked a few times, nervous. John looked back up. "What?"

"You… you didn't say it back," he moped, unsure what to do.

John just grinned. "Oh come on. It's obvious. I love you too, Sherlock. I love you too."

Sherlock beamed and nuzzled him passionately, holding him close, and together they fell asleep.

Lestrade looked up from his book. It had been half an hour since Sherlock and John had gone to find the thief in the hotel, and they still weren't back. Even Anderson, who he had sent to check up on the operation five minutes ago, hadn't returned. Donovan shook her head disapprovingly.

"Knew we should have followed them," she cursed. "Who knows what that psychopath's doing to John in there…"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. Just then Anderson came running towards the police car, looking amused and excited and terrified all at the same time.

"Watson… Sherlock… Sex…" he panted, and then abruptly passed out.

Lestrade's eyes widened; he had seen in coming for a long time, and felt personally responsible for keeping the couple save – after all, without Sherlock, he wouldn't have a job. "He must be delusional," he decided, standing to help Anderson. Donavon frowned. "Maybe the thief has some sort of toxic gas up there. I should go check it out."

"Should I-" Donovan started.

"No, no. You look after Anderson."

And with that Lestrade skipped off to the hotel room.


End file.
